


God On High

by Sinna



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Character Study, In which Enjolras and Grantaire are kept apart by the very thing that holds them together, M/M, Mostly Enjolras musing about how Grantaire treats him like a god and how it sucks, not really E/R until the very end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 05:52:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinna/pseuds/Sinna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To one man in the world, Enjolras was a god. He thought it an odd feeling, terrifying and humbling, and not at all divine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	God On High

**Author's Note:**

> So this is kinda half based on the book and half on the musical. Italics are flashbacks, in case that’s unclear.

To one man in the world, Enjolras was a god. He thought it an odd feeling, terrifying and humbling, and not at all divine. He was painfully aware of his own quite human limitations, but he knew that Grantaire was entirely blind to them. Some people might have found such a follower invigorating. They might have become smug and overbearing. Not Enjolras. He wouldn’t have even noticed how the drunkard fell at his feet if it hadn’t been for an out of place comment from Marius.

_"Why is he even here?” Enjolras asked in frustration one night after Grantaire had once again drunken himself into oblivion. Passed out, bottle still clenched tightly in his fist, he seemed a mockery of everything Enjolras himself stood for._

_“He’s here for you,” Marius said softly. “Don’t tell me you never noticed?”_

_At Enjolras’ confused look, he fell silent and refused to elaborate on the subject._

The conversation still bothered him. He wondered how long he had lived in complete ignorance of his effect on Grantaire. Perhaps since the very beginning. Had he really been so focused on France’s future that he hadn’t been able to see the man right next to him? What else might he have missed? What secrets had his fellow revolutionaries been wearing on their sleeves that he had been too blind to see?

_The night after Marius’ comment, Enjolras watched Grantaire throughout the meeting. It was harder than expected to do so without being observed. Now that he was looking for it, he realized that Grantaire’s eyes were always fixed on him with the intensity of a man who feared he might be struck blind any second. The few times he caught Enjolras looking, he pasted a sheepish grin on his face and raised his bottle in a mock toast._

That had been one of the most terrifying nights of his life. Even now, he could recall how his world had been overturned. For the first time in months, it had not been thoughts of the revolution that kept him awake. It had been thoughts of Grantaire. The man had become a strange fixture in his life. Now that Marius had opened his eyes, he couldn’t help but go over every moment of their interaction, seeing everything with new eyes.

_“That was quite a speech.”_

_Enjolras didn’t recognize the young man who approached him, bright-eyed and eager. Grantaire hadn’t been addicted to the bottle in those days, although he had undoubtedly been born a cynic._

_“I fear you may be the only one who thinks that,” Enjolras sighed bitterly. “These fools care nothing for the future of France. They’re all too caught up in their own petty lives.”_

_“I, for one, would stand beside you if it came to war.”_

_That drew out a small smile._

_“Thank you…um…”_

_“Grantaire,” the man supplied. “And I believe your name is Engolras?”_

_“That’s right. Listen, if you’re truly interested in the Revolution, come to the Café Musain tonight at seven.”_

_“I’ll be there.”_

Thinking back, it was easy to see that Grantaire’s worship had probably begun at that moment. But at the time, Enjolras hadn’t even considered that the man might be more attracted by his personality than his cause. By that time, he had seen himself as nothing more than a tool to bring about tomorrow. Of what might happen after the revolution, he hadn’t given so much as a thought. Unlike Grantaire, he didn’t see himself as a god. He believed himself a sword, a weapon for God to wield to bring about a better future.

_“Enjolras, did you get any sleep last night?”_

_Preoccupied with some papers – a speech, or perhaps maps of Paris, it didn’t matter anymore – Enjolras ignored him. They were alone in the Café. The rest of their friends would be arriving soon, but for the time they were the only ones there._

_“Answer me.”_

_Grantaire hadn’t yet touched the open wine bottle in his hand, so Enjolras decided to indulge him._

_“An hour or two,” he replied offhandedly._

_Grantaire sighed and took a sip from the bottle._

_“Must I ask Joly to remind you of every illness that can be caused by lack of sleep?”_

_“Must I ask him to remind you of what that bottle in your hand is surely doing to your liver?”_

That easy banter between friends had sometimes seemed the only real part of Enjolras’ existence at the time. His soul burning with revolution, he often felt oddly distant from his own life; his own humanity. Grantaire and, to a lesser extent, the rest of his friends were the only ones who had kept him anchored. Yet these casual moments had also been the time when he was most aware of the height of the pedestal on which Grantaire had placed him.

_“Grantaire, put that bottle down!”_

_He was especially frustrated that night, and his voice must have betrayed that fact. The café went silent as his friends’ attention turned to the two of them._

_Grantaire slowly lowered the bottle to the table and released it. Enjolras expected a teasing remark or taunt, but neither was forthcoming._

_“As you wish,” Grantaire whispered instead._

Enjolras still regretted that outburst. Somewhere along the way, he’d begun to see Grantaire as below him. Some of that could have been blamed on Grantaire’s hero-worship, but it was equally Enjolras’ fault, if not more so. He’d never seen himself as a god, but he’d acted like one. The thought made him sick. To be a god, to have that kind of power over someone; he hated it.

It was too much responsibility. He knew that he held every piece of Grantaire’s soul in his hands, and it frightened him more than he could say. How was he supposed to handle such a precious object? His every word had the power to shatter that soul to pieces, and he sometimes felt like he was walking on eggshells around the man. Other times, he was too caught up in his own thoughts and he wouldn’t notice the new cracks in Grantaire until hours, even days, later. He was only human, and his shoulders couldn’t support the weight Grantaire almost unconsciously heaped on them. He was proud to be a leader of men, but he didn’t want to be a god.

Now, surrounded by the cold eyes of the soldiers and the colder gleam of their guns, he was barely more than an animal. The sword of God was broken, rusted, and discarded.

“Take aim!”

Idly, he wondered what had happened to Grantaire. The last he’d seen, the man had been asleep in a drunker stupor. Perhaps he still was. Perhaps he might even survive this. What might he do then? Would he, the skeptic, be the one to carry on their cause? There was a certain beautiful irony in that idea.

“Wait! Do you wish to have your eyes bandaged?”

“No.”

Enjolras forced himself, at the end, to abandon his optimism. Grantaire was most likely dead. And if not, he soon would be. Grantaire had already proven that he would follow Enjolras anywhere on Earth. He would undoubtedly find some way to follow his god beyond the mortal realm.

“Was it you who killed the artillery sergeant?”

“Yes.”

A small movement beyond the soldiers drew Enjolras’ attention.

“Take aim!”

“Long live the Republic! I am one of them!” Grantaire declared. “Long live the Republic!”

Their eyes met across the room and, for just one moment, Enjolras was the one on his knees before Grantaire. Then, somehow, Grantaire had crossed the room and stood beside him, staring defiantly down the barrel of the nearest gun.

“Finish both of us in one blow,” he ordered.

Turning his eyes back to Enjolras, he asked him softly:

“Do you permit it?”

There were no words to answer the question, which went much deeper than its simple phrasing. Instead of speaking, Enjolras took Grantaire’s hand and smiled.

At the end, they were two men who had tried to change the world and failed.

Two men who would love each other until both their hearts stopped beating.

Nothing more, nothing less.


End file.
